


The Series of Moments

by thegrumblingirl



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: M/M, Series of ficlets, WIP, unconnected
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-04
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2017-11-11 10:09:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrumblingirl/pseuds/thegrumblingirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Awakenings, nightly adventures, and a lot of chocolate. A series of ficlets based on prompts received from a friend. Ratings may vary.</p><p>(Marked complete as of 2016-07-22.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lunch

Strolling down a road bustling with students on their bikes or walking to and fro between colleges in small groups, Lewis and Hathaway walked close enough to touch, not even noticing they were moving in unison, James shortening his strides with years of practice. It was a sunny Wednesday noon, and they'd decided they were on their lunch break now, after spending the morning crouched over a dead body in the grass and tracking down early leads, mostly interviewing witnesses.

"So, wanna grab a sandwich?" Lewis asked, turning his head and looking up at his Sergeant, whose lips were slightly quirked up at the edges, eyes surveying the passers-by, squinting a little against the sun. Hathaway turned towards him and shrugged minutely.

"Don't really mind what I'm having for lunch, sir," he replied, his low voice even, just a hint of mischief lurking in the way he said 'sir.' Taking that as the younger man's way of saying, 'I put myself into your hands, sir,' Robbie shrugged in response and settled his own mind on a ham sandwich from the shop just around the corner from where they were, in an alley less crowded and busy.

When they found it, James sat himself down on a low wall, digging a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, lighting one with smooth, practised movements that Lewis hated and loved all at once. Hated the habit, to be precise, loved the way James' fingers curled around the cigarette, tapping the ash off the tip occasionally, holding it loosely at his side or with his wrist propped up on his knee when they were talking.

'Enough staring at your Sergeant, Inspector,' Robbie admonished himself in his thoughts, quickly entering the shop, locating the sandwiches. Deciding on an especially delicious-looking ham, he looked around for something for Hathaway to munch on. They didn't have his favourite cheese, Lewis noticed with a frown, and turned to take a look 'round at the salads when his eyes fell on the display of sweets and chocolate bars near the till. Unbidden, his mouth turned up in a smirk, and before he was quite through the thought, he was moving.

Stepping outside into the reasonably warm May air, he spied Hathaway still sitting where he'd left him, smoking contentedly, looking at him, his eyes narrowed the way they did when he took one last draught from his cigarette before extinguishing the butt, grinding it into the dust with his boot, before picking it up and chucking it into a near-by bin. He watched Lewis come over expectantly, tilting his head, blowing the rest of the smoke from his nostrils.

"So, what've you got for me this time?"

Reigning in his smirk, Lewis handed him his prize, and Hathaway let out a strangled snort, the kind he wouldn't allow himself often, except when he was with Robbie.

"A Yorkie bar, sir?"

"You didn't give me any instructions, did you?"

"You tell the man off for being presumptuous…," Hathaway muttered under his breath, for both his own and Lewis' benefit, but Robbie could tell by the inflection that he wasn't upset, just amused. And possibly breathing a bit funny for a second there, but Robbie wasn't going to bet anything on that. Unwrapping his sandwich and tucking in, Robbie watched out of the corner of his eye as Hathaway eyed his "lunch" for a second before tearing the wrapper off efficiently. Casting a sidelong glance at Lewis, he pulled a non-committal face—the same non-committal face that usually told Robbie that he'd landed himself in very big trouble indeed—and took a hearty bite. Robbie nearly stopped breathing. He hadn't signed up for this. He  _really_  hadn't. Watching Hathaway's lips wrap around the chocolate bar, watching them suckle on the slightly warmed-up frosting for a bit before pulling away to munch on his mouthful, Lewis had to remind himself to keep chewing and to stop staring. There was a bit of melted chocolate in the corner of James' mouth, too, begging to be licked off, and Lewis had just about come to terms with that when James swallowed and opened his mouth for another bite, his tongue sneaking out to lap at the filling threatening to spill, melting much quicker in the warm spring air. The entire time, Hathaway was looking out at the world, as if it held some terribly interesting secrets, not once checking if Lewis was observing him—although the heat of his stare was probably enough to feel it through a wall of stone, Robbie surmised, mentally cuffing himself 'round the back of the head, though knowing that cause was long since lost.

He looked away for a minute, eating more of his sandwich, trying to get the somewhat inconvenient reaction his body was more or less obviously showing under control, even though they were completely alone in the street at the moment. When he'd calmed himself down enough, he returned his eyes to Hathaway, only to find that the other man was staring at him now, the Yorkie bar all finished, the wrapper binned. Lewis nearly groaned—the smudge of melted chocolate was still where it had been. Feeling unduly reminded of that time they'd had coffee out in a café and Hathaway had got foam all over his upper lip and, Heaven help him, the tip of his nose, Robbie attempted schooling his expression into one of idle curiosity. Judging by the faint smirk crinkling the corners of Hathaway's eyes, he was failing rather spectacularly.

"Is that any good, then? Never had one," he asked, relieved that his voice didn't sound quite as husky as it could have, under the circumstances. (The Yorkie bar James had handed him after getting out of the hospital had landed in the glove compartment of one of their cars, forgotten and probably gone off by now.) Hathaway looked at him steadily, tilting his head again, as if mulling it over. After a minute, he nodded his head a little, having come to a conclusion. He directed his bright gaze straight at Robbie, and the DI narrowly stifled the urge to swallow in apprehension at the cross between trepidation and determination he saw in those eyes.

"Wanna try?" he asked, surreptitiously angling his body further towards Robbie.

Try? Well, there wasn't any of it left, was there, Hathaway had eaten it all—oh. He couldn't—could he? Robbie drew breath to reply, but had the suspicion that his voice might actually fail him this time, so instead he just nodded, having no idea what he'd just let himself in for. Would James get up and swagger off into the shop, buying another one for him, or would he… would he?

Robbie had no time to put a stop to his internal debate before Hathaway leaned over, closed the gap between them, and kissed him, squarely on the mouth, pressing firmly but carefully, pale lips lush against Lewis' thinner ones. Lewis felt he had no say in it whatsoever when his eyes slid shut, not even minding to check the perimeter for unwelcome onlookers first. A hand came up to rest against his chest for a moment, then there were fingers curling into the lapels of his suit jacket, pulling him closer. Robbie unconsciously angled his head to the right for better access and just  _more_ , when it occurred to him that, well, he wasn't getting much of a taste yet, was he? Taking a few more seconds to work up his courage, he parted his lips under James', flicking his tongue at the corner of his mouth that still wore the smudge of chocolate. Hathaway let out a sound that may have been a moan, and Lewis' own breath caught in his throat.

It was then that James opened his own mouth to him, inviting him in, drawing him closer, and Robbie didn't think twice before pushing closer and snaking his tongue past James' lips. 'Oh, hell,' he thought. There it was—the taste of Yorkie bar and tobacco and the coffee they'd had in the morning when James had come to pick Robbie up at his flat to go to the crime scene; and under all of that there was something undefinable, something quiet and enormously loud at the same time—uniquely Hathaway, Robbie thought. His right hand wound itself around James' left arm, the one he used to anchor himself and hold his balance on the low wall they were sitting on; the sandwich in Robbie's own left hand all but forgotten.

They went on kissing and exploring each other's mouths and lips for another minute, but had to break apart for air at some point. Robbie found himself panting heavily—damn, it had been entirely too long since Val, and entirely too long since he'd first realised he fancied his Sergeant. James' eyes were lidded, his breathing less ragged, but with his lips glistening and his cheeks flushed, he was quite the sight.

"I—that—that's not exactly what I had in mind," Robbie managed, and to his relief, James just exhaled in a huff of content laughter, finally opening his eyes fully to look at him with nothing short of delight.

"Me, neither," James answered, loosening his hold on Robbie's jacket to smooth out the lapel, his touch lingering. "We should probably get back to work, shouldn't we?"

Robbie nodded, his eyes searching for something in James'. For regret, for wanting to forget this ever happened, for pulling away. He felt he should say something to reassure him, to tell him that he wanted this, whatever this was. His eyes widened in surprise, then, when James smiled, as if he'd read his thoughts.

"Perhaps we should… talk about all this tonight, sir? Take-away dinner, your place? I'll bring the wine."

Smiling back at James, Robbie nodded again, not quite trusting his voice, for various reasons. James squirmed a bit, then tilted his head. "Are we… OK to walk on?"

'Oh, the sly bastard knows exactly what he's doing,' Robbie thought, but couldn't help the smirk tugging on his lips. He let go of James' arm and wrapped up the remains of his sandwich in the paper, tossed it in the bin in a perfect curve, rubbed his hands to get rid of any crumbs, and turned back to look at Hathaway.

"Come on, then," he grumbled, and together they got up and turned back towards the main road, walking close enough to touch, looking for all the world like the two happiest policemen in the Thames Valley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt, via text: "Robbie buys James a Yorkie bar. Enjoys watching him eat it a lot. Goes like, 'Is that any good, never had one.' James: 'Wanna try?' and kisses him."
> 
> Repost from ff.net.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing, I get nothing.
> 
> This happened very much when I was half-way out the door. Ch., my fellow shipper and partner in crime, decided to start sending me little visions and prompts at impossible times (meaning: hopefully when I'm in a seminar or a lecture), just to cheer me up. She sent me the first while I was running an errand this morning, and then the writing mood suddenly hit me and I couldn't help myself. Thus, these will gradually turn into more little ficlets, securing Ch's permission for each individually.


	2. At Night

It had been about ten minutes since Robbie and James had started kissing, quite without warning, while doing the dishes, with Rory Pond, the cat they had got from the local shelter more or less by accident, looking on from his perch on the sofa. Rory had tilted his head, then jumped off the cushion he'd been snuggled into, and disappeared form the room without the two men noticing, leaving the house via the newly-installed cat flap.

At the sink, James moaned into Robbie's mouth, his long fingers trying to find purchase in Robbie's shirt, drawing him closer into his tall body. Robbie's hands were buried in his hair, angling James' blond head to the side as he deepened the kiss. Breathing heavily through his nose, James knew there was only one thing left for him to do: get them into the bedroom without any major accidents involving furniture or walls.

Having succeeded in their endeavour, they found themselves on the bed, naked, writhing against each other, James lying between Robbie's legs, his back curved so he could wrap his arms around Robbie's shoulders, steadying them with his elbows against the mattress as they kissed haphazardly. Robbie bucked his hips into James, a silent demand for more, faster,  _now_! James smirked against his lips and complied with the request, grinding himself into Robbie with more force, quickening the rhythm, hissing at the way their erections hardened with the friction, knowing that, if they kept this up, neither of them would last long, no matter how much this wasn't the first time they did this.

"James," Robbie rasped, his hands flexing on James' shoulders, legs wrapping around the younger man's thighs without a second thought. "James, please."

James knew exactly what these two words meant, spoken through a haze of desire, and shifted his balance to his right arm so he could use the left to fish the lube and condoms from the bedside table. He removed his right arm from Robbie's shoulders as well and sat up, kneeling between Robbie's thighs, some part of his mind still not quite believing that this was what he got to marvel at whenever they wanted, whenever they could. Drawing what he hoped was a calming breath, he uncapped the lube and spread a generous amount on two fingers, dropping the bottle on the covers next to them, and bent down. Robbie spread his legs even wider in invitation, and with a reassuring look, James slipped first one, then both fingers past the tight ring of muscle.

Gasping, Robbie pushed against him and groaned, his lips forming words that sounded vaguely like, "Oh, hell," his accent becoming stronger when he let go, the lilt in his speech driving James to distraction. Setting up a steady rhythm with his fingers, James prepared Robbie, pushing further in each time, Robbie meeting the shallow thrusts, arching his back.

At length, he reached for James blindly, his head dropped back into the pillows, eyes closed against the onslaught of sensations. James let his fingers slide out and reached to the side once again to unwrap a condom. Rolling it down on his shaft, he quickly coated it in more lube before positioning himself between Robbie's hips. Robbie was watching him now, blue eyes dark with lust, and wound his hands into James' neck to pull him down for another kiss. Propping himself up with his left elbow again, James reached down between their bodies to guide his cock in the right position, nearly forgetting how to breathe when the head nudged the opening.

Robbie wriggled his hips to draw him in, impatience clearly showing in the way his lips slid against James'. The younger man didn't have to be asked twice and buried himself in Robbie with one determined stroke. Both stilled for a moment, breaking the kiss and pulling away a little, eyes meeting. James worked his right arm underneath Robbie's body to wrap it around his waist, both moaning when he drew up Robbie's hips towards him.

He bent his head to place kisses along Robbie's jawline, flicking his tongue at his ear lobe, nipping at the sensitive skin of his neck with his teeth. Robbie turned his head into the pillows to allow him better access, his eyes sliding shut when James eventually started moving his hips, but something caught his attention, something glinting in the light beyond the window, and he opened his eyes again.

James was about to pull back and then thrust back into Robbie with relish, when Robbie's hand tapping on his shoulder stilled him. Drawing back to look at Robbie, eyebrows in a strange position somewhere between concern and surprise, he meant to ask, 'What?' but was distracted by the somewhat petrified expression on his lover's face.

"Robbie?" he asked, instead.

"James," Robbie rasped in response. "Look outside."

Turning his head to look out the window, James' jaw dropped. For all the good it did him, there were five cats sitting on the outer window sill, staring at them. Five glinting pairs of green and yellow eyes, fixed on them, some heads tilted inquisitively, ears front in curiosity. Opening and shutting his mouth a few times, trying desperately to have  _something_  to make sense of this situation, James eventually dropped his head, resting it in the crook of Robbie's neck for a moment before drawing back. Drawing a deep breath, he finally knew just what to say.

"RORANICUS PONDICUS!" he roared, anger evident in his voice, sending involuntary shivers up Robbie's spine, who couldn't even help it as his hips bucked into James as his shout seemed to vibrate through both their bodies, at which James raised an eyebrow at him archly. Shrugging, Robbie smiled slightly, brushing a hand over James' chest. Their bedroom door, which had been left ajar, squeaked a bit, and Rory poked his head 'round the corner, going for his best innocent look, but knowing there was no way out of it this time.

"Get them down from there and away… from… the… house," James intoned, using the tone he always did when he was cross with Rory, the one that made Robbie smile against his will, wondering what it could have been like if he'd been younger and they could have looked at adoption schemes or the like. A second later, all they saw of the striped feline was the tail end, disappearing from the bedroom. James looked at the cats perched outside again.

"You know," he said, a shred of anger still colouring his voice, "you'd think they'd bugger off on their own, you'd think I wouldn't have to send Rory out to tell them the peeping toms' party is over."

He said it with such conviction, such earnestness, that Robbie couldn't hold it in any longer. Snorting a bit through his nose, he started laughing, his body shaking in James' arms, the minor earthquakes going through him rocking his hips, which made it very suddenly and abundantly clear to James that they were still, to coin a phrase, joint at the hip, and although he'd been a little distracted, his arousal hadn't abated much. Now, the sensations made his stomach churn and he had to bite his lip to stop himself from starting to move again right away. First, those cats needed to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Lewis and Hathaway are shagging regularly and passionately, which confuses their cat, Rory Pond, to no end. And if the cats from the neighbourhood want to watch, they need to ask nicely."


	3. The Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags on to Your Sudden Death Question (S04E03), but extends beyond that.

Lewis hadn't quite closed the door to his flat behind him when his mobile rang. Digging it out of his pocket, he sighed, nearly expecting the late caller to be James, asking how his fish-and-chips dinner with Laura had gone in that infernally smooth voice he saved for prying questions Robbie never had an answer to that didn't leave him with the nagging feeling of having said the wrong thing. When he glanced at the screen, however, a pleasant surprise was waiting for him: it was Lynn.

"Hello, pet," he said as he took the call, smiling. "What are you up to this evening?"

"Hi, Dad," came his daughter's soft voice, bright as ever, but with a somewhat wistful edge.

"Everything alright?" he enquired quietly, knowing that simply asking was most often the right route to take—Lynn took after her mother in that respect.

"I'm fine, I just… there's something I wanted to tell you." She was hesitant, but for whose benefit, Robbie didn't know.

"Well, out with it then, love, whatever it is."

"I—how's James? Did you get his guitar back in one piece?"

That was a sudden change of subject, Robbie thought, but decided not to press the matter and go along with it. "Yeah, got it back and all, arrested the blighter who took it. Funny, that—it was the same guy James bought it from originally years ago. Lucky I don't have to think too hard about where it might have come from in the first place, then. Listen, pet—thanks for that, couldn't have done it without your help. James said to tell you he's very grateful. Which, in his very own, Cambridge blue way, means he'd drive you to work every day for a year if you took him to task," Robbie added with a chuckle.

He heard Lynn laugh, and when she didn't say anything else, he couldn't help but ask; "What?"

"Nothing, it's just… Dad, he makes you happy, doesn't he? James?"

Robbie stumbled for words for a moment, not quite sure if he understood where this was leading. "Well, he's a good lad, is all. Great to work with, and God knows we don't have the most substantial of social lives, being coppers… what's brought this on, pet?" he asked.

"Dad." His daughter's tone was very much like Val's whenever she'd caught him out in a cute deflection. "You move heaven and hell to help him get his guitar back while you should be solving a murder—"

"Yeah, but it had to happen quickly; once it's on the internet, it's gone faster than pancakes, you said so yourself," he interrupted.

"Oh, hush," Lynn eloquently waved his objections aside. "Dad—you were in such a hurry… that wasn't the only reason, was it? It was hurting you, too."

Robbie opened his mouth to stall and make up an excuse, but suddenly it was as if all the words had left him in a cloud of dust, and the only thing left was the startling realisation that this was it. The chance he had been secretly waiting for, perhaps for months; the one and only chance to have this conversation, a conversation he'd never thought he'd consider having with his daughter after losing his wife. It was then that he noticed he was standing like a statue in the middle of the living room. He let himself flop down on the sofa with a sigh, brushing a hand through his hair.

"Pet," he began, not knowing where to start. "I never—I don't… Why?"

"You get that tone in your voice when you talk about him. And when you called two days ago, you were so… determined."

"Love, I don't know how to tell you… I never thought it would happen, let alone like this, with him. It doesn't mean I—your mum was everything to me, and she always will be."

"I know, Dad," Lynn was crying now, Robbie could hear it in the tightness of her voice. "And it's alright. Honest, it is. It's… a strange feeling, but losing Mum always will never feel any different, that's just it. It's not strange that you should be happy again, and it's not strange that it's with James."

"Don't you think?" He could hear her sniffle softly, half a sob, half a laugh.

"Actually, after hearing you tell all the stories about him, no. You're an odd couple, but you fit, don't you? You match."

"I meant… because he's a man."

"Well, that  _was_  a little unexpected," Lynn replied drily, and Robbie smiled at the quiet humour in her tone. "Dad, Mum and you raised us in the knowledge that these things don't matter. So they don't."

"There are things that matter, though."

"Like what?"

"Like age," Robbie inwardly winced. "I feel like—he's so young, and I'm getting on. He's me Sergeant, for heaven's… it's not right, pet."

"He does spend most of his spare time with you, though, doesn't he? And I don't think it's pity dates, you know. The way you describe him, he sounds like an old soul to me."

"Ah, he's just… He'll find someone his own age."

"Well, you told me he tried that, didn't you. Twice even."

"Why are you so—you're like your mum, once you've got your teeth into something, there's no prying you away from it. What is it?"

"Dad… I think he has feelings for you, too."

"Oh, give over!"

"Dad, listen! All the things he did, for you—no-one seems to know him even just a bit as well as you do, and no-one, apart from your family, wants to take care of you half as much as he does. Half the conversations you have you tell me about, he's flirting with you. You walked down a street listening to music on his iPod together—Dad!" She finished on an exasperated exclamation, almost but not quite laughing. "I know I haven't met him yet, but… there's something there, isn't it? Don't let it go. And don't... don't push him away. If you are what he wants, let him choose."

"You mean I should—"

"Do something about it, yes. Ask him out, tell him, I don't know."

"What if he says no?" In that one moment, Robbie knew that his voice sounded so lost, so small—it hadn't sounded so small in a long time, not even to himself. He heard Lynn draw breath, then stop. She sighed into his ear, and Lewis' heart clenched. Here he was, asking his daughter for dating advice, asking her to help him get over this impossible fear of rejection he felt whenever he looked at a brilliant man twenty years his junior, who he just happened to work with every day. "Lynn, if that goes belly-up, we'll have nowhere to hide."

"Then we need a plan to make sure that it won't."

* * *

A couple of days later, Lewis and Hathaway were sitting in their office, pouring over old case files, routinely checking for something that might have gone unnoticed in the initial reports, anything to solve a crime committed more than ten years ago. Lewis had to suppress a yawn—it was only three in the afternoon, but he felt as if he'd been sitting there for days on end. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hathaway rub at his right eye the way he did when he was growing tired and the contact lenses started itching, even the special ones he'd been prescribed a while ago. He felt that niggling feeling in his gut again—ever since he'd talked about it with Lynn, and she'd helped him come up with The Plan, he couldn't stop thinking about it. Hell, he hardly ever stopped thinking about Hathaway these days, but the prospect of actually having something to do about it was more than a little daunting. At the same time, he felt an incredible rush of excitement, the anticipation, the feeling that perhaps, just perhaps, there was a chance… after months of trying to get himself to clamp down on it, it proved nearly too much for him.

But when was he ever going to work up the courage to actually  _ask_?

"Something the matter, sir?" James' question shook him from his thoughts, and it was only then that he realised he'd kept staring at his partner for no apparent reason.

"What? Oh, no, nothing, just zoning out," Robbie quickly answered. Hathaway hummed in reply and was about to go back to reading and occasionally taking notes when Lewis thought, 'Oh, hell, why ever not,' and cleared his throat. "Actually, James, there is."

"Oh." James voice had taken on that tone, the tone that wasn't really a tone because it was trying very hard not to be there and not to give away how much he thought he wasn't going to like what he would hear next.

"It's about that festival you were at, the one you missed almost completely 'cause you had to come back for the case, and all… and, well, I thought maybe you'd like to take a weekend off some time and go see another one of those bands you like."

" _Oh._ " Now, that was definitely a tone, somewhere between flummoxed and hit by a lorry.

"You know, I just thought, it's only fair. The next bank holiday's a while off, and, well, I don't know if there's anything decent on at the moment, but if you find something, just say the word, OK?"

"I—I will. Thank you, sir," James added with a smile that knocked the wind right out of Robbie; it was a shy smile, but so unguarded and open that Robbie wanted to use it as a blanket at night and carry it around with him by day to keep himself warm whenever James wasn't around.

* * *

It was another few weeks later, after their next case, that James turned up at Lewis' flat with take-away, wine, and a magazine.

"That's not  _Loaded_  again, is it?" Robbie couldn't help quipping when the younger man laid it down on the coffee table with a flourish, next to their food and the glasses Robbie had fetched from the kitchen.

" _Sir_ ," was all James offered, mockingly offended. "No, as you will perceive, it is a music magazine, detailing, among other things, all tour dates of some bands I thought might be interesting."

"Let's hear it, then," Robbie prompted, already tucking in.

"Well, there are the more obvious choices: Coldplay, The Killers, The Kooks, Razorlight—" James stopped when he saw the rather blank stare Robbie was giving him, and smiled. "But none of those are quite what I had in mind."

"Imagine my relief."

"Sir," Hathaway replied with that dutiful air that let Lewis know he was quietly being poked fun at. "A band I would like to go see, though, is Interpol. Now, they  _should_  sound familiar."

"One of the CDs you brought around once, so you wouldn't have to to endure Wagner again?"

"Very good, sir!" James was grinning now, and Robbie mentally kicked himself as all he could think was that he needed to see that grin more often. "Anyway, I haven't seen them live yet, so I thought this might be the right occasion."

"When is it?"

"Concert's in a month. That's enough time to put in for a weekend off, isn't it?"

"Yeah, I don't think Innocent will complain too much."

"Good... tickets are no use if she's ripped our heads off beforehand." Robbie's head whipped around at that and, though he found James inspecting the contents of his food container, he could not have missed the slightly too nonchalant way those words had been spoken.

"James?" he asked, trying not to show how much depended on the direction this conversation would take within the next five seconds.

"Your weekend was ruined by that case, too, wasn't it? Interpol isn't Italian opera, I know, but you listened to the CD without too much complaint, so I thought—but, no, you're right, it was silly to suggest it, you wouldn't want to—"

"Yes."

"What?"

"I'd like to go to the concert with you. Where is it?"

"Really? Uh, London," James was trying desperately not to let his voice climb the last few octaves out of human hearing range.

"Good, then we don't need a hotel. You're welcome to crash here, though."

"I—that's really, um," Hathaway stumbled over his words a little before hypnotising his take-away again for a moment. When he looked up at Lewis again, he seemed to be having trouble deciding on a face, but his voice was a little rough around the edges as he said, "I'm really looking forward to it, sir."

* * *

Two days later, Robbie was knocking on Chief Innocent's office door, looking back at James, who was standing in the doorway of their own office, giving him a thumbs-up. He arched an eyebrow at him before entering and getting the signal from Innocent's secretary to just step through. He did and was met with Jean Innocent's What Is Paperwork, Why Do I Have to Deal with It, and What the Hell Do You Want face. He didn't particularly like that face, but it terrified him less than her The Commissioner Has Been Calling Me Again face, so the churning in his gut settled down a little.

"What is it, Inspector?"

"It's, ah... I wanted to put in for a weekend off, Ma'am."

"What, you, too? Hathaway didn't warn me when he came to see me earlier."

"Yes, Ma'am, sorry about that. It's just, we both could have done with that bank holiday, and Hathaway's missed his festival..."

"I see. Well, I've already approved his request. I understand there's a concert he's been waiting for ages to attend-what's your excuse?"

"Just my back, Ma'am, there's trouble coming on. Though, if that's alright, I'd like to take the same weekend off as Hathaway. See, there'd be replacements coming in anyway, and to be honest I'm not too keen on spending that weekend out on a murder inquiry with someone I barely know."

Jean regarded him steadily for a moment before nodding slowly. "Alright. Both of you deserve the break, you're right, and if a weekend off saves me from putting you on leave for breaking your back, I don't see why not."

Robbie smiled at her carefully. "Thank you, Ma'am."

"Yes, yes, now go back to your Sergeant and find me a killer."

"Ma'am," Robbie let himself out of her office and went back to his own, puffing out his cheeks as he closed the door behind him.

"How did it go?" Hathaway asked from behind a stack of evidence boxes, a pen sticking out of his mouth at a funny angle.

"As long as she doesn't start making 'let's call Interpol, see if they can help us track it' jokes, I think we're safe."

James pulled a face, nearly taking his own eye out with the pen. "D'you think she'd do that?"

"Wouldn't put it past her, would you?" Robbie shot back as he sat down at his desk, getting ready to pick up the phone and lean on forensics a bit to hurry up with those DNA samples.

"And if she does?"

"Admit nothing, point at flying monkeys over her shoulder, run," Robbie suggested as he dialled.

"Just how do you come up with these marvellous plans, sir?"

"Spent a few years watching you, taught me a thing or two." He smiled at the glare he got for that, then held up a hand to ask for a moment of quiet as someone down in the labs answered the phone.

* * *

Friday evening, the concert was—well, loud, though not exactly louder than anything Robbie had heard when he was young, and surprisingly nowhere near as rowdy. The crowd was well-behaved, at least from where Robbie and James were standing, about half-distance from the stage and slightly to the right. They had been getting a few curious looks from a few twenty-somethings on their way in, but judging by how they'd broken into easy smiles as he'd caught their eye, Robbie shouldn't have been nervous about sticking out like a sore thumb—or about being an embarrassment to James, for that matter. He'd been aware that they'd look, to all the world, as if they were an odd couple on a date; and even if he wasn't raising the average age single-handedly, Robbie knew that, wherever they turned up and people didn't know who they were, they were never mistaken for father and son.

A few pieces Robbie recognised from the CD James had brought one evening, though most had passed him by as they'd spent the night talking and not exactly listening to the stereo. Most was what James called, 'fairly straight-forward indie-rock and post-punk,' but there was something else about them that seemed to resonate with James, and that Robbie found he liked very much himself. Around them, there we many couples simply embracing and calmly moving with the music, so Robbie didn't feel too awkward about not moshing with the rest of them, and James appeared content to just stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him, listening intently and tapping his foot on the ground in time with the beat. Sometimes, he'd lean close to shout something in Robbie's ear over the applause or the opening chords of a song, something about references or a story about the track's inception, or how it fit into the grand scheme of the album it was taken from, but Robbie wasn't sure how much of that he'd remember apart from the way James' lips never quite brushed the shell of his ear and his growing frustration with that.

The frustration only got worse when the opening riff of 'NARC' reverberated through the air, with James holding his breath just a second too long and Robbie becoming aware of just how much trouble he was in if this didn't work out and James would end up in his flat, on the sofa just down the hall, with Robbie tossing and turning in the bed, aching to touch something that wasn't his. The tension between them grew even as they refused to move away from each other, yet each of them unable to reach out and just _take_ what they wanted, right then and there.

When the song ended, both were breathing a little heavier, and as Robbie felt it was safe to look at James again without giving away the desire that had built up within him, he found himself watching James more than the singer on the stage; wondering just when exactly he'd make a complete idiot of himself when the first lines of 'Public Pervert' (rather appropriately named, Lewis thought) hit him right in the gut as he was studying his partner's profile in the flickering lights.

_If time is my vessel, then learning to love  
Might be my way back to sea_

Was this what he'd felt about James all along? Whenever he tried to think back and pin-point the moment he'd fallen for that infuriatingly brilliant man beside him, he couldn't. He didn't know a day when that feeling hadn't been there and then the next it had. Perhaps he'd simply known it one day, deep down, long before actually admitting it to himself, but if so, he couldn't remember. Thus distracted, the rest of the song flew by until the crowd was clapping and cheering again, James joining in for the first time to make his appreciation known. Robbie shook his head a little to clear his thoughts, and when the lead singer announced a song called 'C'Mere,' James shifted a little closer yet, and Robbie looked up at him. Their eyes met, and there was something in the taller man's gaze that Lewis didn't understand, couldn't understand, until...

_It's way too late  
To be this locked inside ourselves;  
The trouble is  
That you're in love with someone else;  
It should be me,  
Oh, it should be me_

James looked away after that, looked down and examined his shoes, but the muscle twitching in his jaw told Lewis everything he needed to know—the hint at Italian opera when James had asked him to come along, the little nudges and impertinent questions during that damned quiz case, the way the lad had looked at him every time he'd mentioned her in the last investigation... he thought Robbie was mooning over Laura. Oh,  _hell_. He was still wondering how on earth he was going to get past that without possibly doing something monumentally stupid when the set list did him a favour. A slower, quieter song started and Robbie realised with a jolt that he actually remembered the lines to this one, simply because they'd struck him like lightning when they'd sounded through his living room for the first time. James had been in the kitchen, sorting out some left-overs and, left to his own devices for a moment, Robbie had been drawn in by the song and the almost comically accurate lyrics. He knew that his chance would come about two thirds into the song and, unconsciously, he moved a little further into James' space, who was still staring ahead now, but tilted his head a little as he felt Robbie press closer, the way he always did when they were out and about together in Oxford, as if waiting for him to say something.

Willing himself not to ruin it, just this once, Robbie slipped his arm into the gap between their bodies, just letting the back of his fingers brush against James', briefly entwining their index fingers before letting go again and just letting their hands rest together, lightly, but with noticeable purpose.

_So much for make believe, I'm not sold  
So much of dreams, deceit, I'm not prepared to know  
Your heart makes me feel  
Your heart makes me bold  
For always and ever, I'll never let go  
Always concealed  
Safe and inside, alive (_ _1)_

James was staring at him in the half-light now, silently asking a question Lewis wouldn't have known the answer to over a month earlier when Lynn had called him, but now he did. Unequivocally, irreversably. He looked back up at James with a smile in the corners of his eyes and serenity nestled in the curve of his lips, and when James' eyes brightened up the shadows, he knew.

Neither really noticed when the song petered out and another began, but at some point James moved, stepping just behind Robbie and encircling him with his arms, their bodies just close enough to feel the heat radiating through their clothes, James' breath tickling Robbie's hair.

_And I warned them  
I face the storms at the tides  
From the lighthouse_

_And I warned them_  
 _Unleash the storm and the night (_ _2)_

* * *

Robbie nearly dropped his keys as he fumbled them into the lock, acutely aware of James huddled in the doorway behind him, both shivering slightly in the cool air that surrounded them at one in the bloody morning, coming home from a concert and both buzzing with nerves and lust like teenagers. Finally, the door gave and they bundled along to Lewis' flat, which admitted them without complaint, only to find themselves slightly paralysed with the realisation that the point of no return was coming closer and closer, and they didn't even care. Later, neither of them would be able to remember who made the first step towards the other, just that they met in the middle and that they were kissing, lips and tongues and teeth, and that they both knew that they would have to talk about this in the morning—that they would have an entire weekend to talk, to get used to each other in all the old and new ways that were open to them now.

When they practically fell on Robbie's bed, a tangle of limbs and clothes not quite off yet, they gasped at the sparks the friction caused between them, their bodies aligning as if they'd done this countless times already. Robbie bent his head to nip at James' neck and collarbone, mouthing a trail down his naked chest, enjoying the strangled moan he heard from above. With a swipe of his thumb against James' inner thigh, still trapped in tight jeans, Robbie decided that there would be no more missed chances. Not tonight, not ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 'Pioneer to The Falls'
> 
> 2 'The Lighthouse'
> 
> "Prompt: After the ep is over, Lynn calls her dad to tell him his love is showing and to do something about it. Robbie takes James to a concert of his choice. Rumpy-pumpy."
> 
> I enjoyed that last part especially, standing in the post office in the afternoon, getting text messages succinctly requesting some action for our beautiful idiots, holding my phone in one hand and scratching together the money for a package to Ch. with the other. As you do.


	4. If I Were a Painter, I Would Paint a Reverie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Episode tag to The Point of Vanishing (S03E03)

James wandered through the quiet rooms and halls of the Ashmolean, the museum they'd spent so much time in these last few days, smiling a little as he passed  _The Hunt in the Forest_. A rush of fondness passed through him, remembering the way he and Lewis had sat together on that bench, bodies aligned from shoulder to knee, staring at the hunters disappearing into the woods, into a darkness that neither understood for the longest time.

Hathaway moved along and stopped in his tracks when his eyes fells on the  _Rive des Esclavons_  by J. M. W. Turner, which had always been a favourite of his. He singled out a bench across from it and sat down, flicking open the sketchbook he'd been carrying under his arm and taking out a small etui containing pencils in various grades. Mapping out the painting with his eyes, his long, pale fingers traced the paper in anticipation of the world the charcoal was going to create at his bidding. Drawing wasn't as prominent in his life as his music or reading, but he liked practising now and then, liked the way shapes only existing in his head translated to movements of his hands, the way it felt similar to when he played his guitar, and yet completely different.

He was prone to doodling, too, though he was careful not to let anyone see when he was doing it at work. The reason for that was two-fold: for starters, it wasn't any of their bloody business what went on in his notepads unless it pertained to an investigation. The other, more important reason was that the things he tended to doodle were less than suitable for the general Valley Thames and Oxfordshire Police audience. Sometimes, he doodled when the subject of his observations was sitting at the desk across from his, unawares, sometimes, he drew from memory the things he had studied for so long it almost felt they'd always been part of his life, not just for the past three years.

Thus derailed, his thoughts veered off and, quickly turning a page, James found himself sketching the outlines of a familiar profile, the button of a nose he'd thought about kissing as a way of saying Good morning more times than he cared to count, the curve of a cheek he wanted to feel lean into the cup of his hand just once. His fingers moved with the certainty of touch, of knowing the contours of that beloved face, although the only way he'd ever touched it was with his eyes.

When it was finished, James stared at the drawing for a moment, as if not quite believing that he'd really done this, as if the vehemence with which these images tore to the surface of his heart and mind, and onto the paper still surprised him. And it did: the depth of his emotions, the importance they had gained, filling a void in his life he had long given up on. James then flipped back a page and started on the actual reason for coming to the gallery in the first place.

Back at his flat, he laid his keys, wallet, sketchbook and etui on the kitchen counter, switching the kettle on for a cup of tea, digging his phone out of his pocket to check for messages. There weren't any. No cases, no pints—he was supposed to 'properly enjoy his weekend off,' and apparently that meant being separated from the one source of joy he'd known for what felt, and probably was, a lifetime. Waiting for the water to boil, James went over to gently tear the page that held the portrait out of the sketchbook and went over to the kitchen table, opening a simple drawer set in. Hesitating a moment as he opened it, he let his eyes roam over the mass of smaller bits of papers torn from notepads and scrap sheets at work, displaying to his gaze the way Lewis' hand cradled a pint, the way he held his head when nearly arguing with Innocent, the way his brow furrowed when he frowned at something in a post-mortem or lab report. He placed the latest addition to his collection on top of them, as if trying to shut them out for a moment, trying not to be overwhelmed by the feelings of heartache and guilt that seemed to have become one in his contemplations of his boss, his partner, his… friend.

James knew that his selfishness had no place in this, that he shouldn't feel as if the world never gave one what one wanted, much less what one needed—because, hadn't the world already given more than he could have ever hoped for? But Lewis would never know, would never understand, would probably laugh at him if he saw this—no, not laugh  _at him_ , Robbie Lewis was not as cruel as James himself had been so long ago. But he would laugh in that way he had, the one that told James he was being a daft sod, and he wouldn't understand that James wasn't just being daft, but that he was hopelessly in love and no-one would ever know.

James Hathaway had never had any use for the feelings people seemed to want to throw at him, and now that he did, he may know that love was never wrong, but he also knew that love wasn't a promise of a better life, because those were promises that life wasn't inclined to keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Museum: James draws a work of art. Ends up drawing Robbie instead."  
> Disclaimer: Title nicked from Norah Jones' Painter Song (from her first album, Come Away With Me)
> 
> Prompt by Ch., angst is entirely mine. Sorry for bursting our little fandot bubble like this, this is just me channelling real life.


	5. Lazy Lie-ins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not a prompt, just a drabble that popped into my head as I was terminally tired this week. I wondered if James sometimes feels the same, what with being so utterly young and never getting as much sleep as he should, until, at some point, even he must be so, so exhausted.

Robbie closed the door of his flat behind him and found himself face-to-face with a very drowsy-looking Sergeant Hathaway, who had unceremoniously deposited his lanky self against the wall of the hall, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his black woolen coat.

"Blimey," Lewis muttered under his breath and gently grasped James' shoulders, turned him around, and guided him towards the sofa. "Hang on—coat," he reminded James before the lad managed and fell asleep in it as he sat down, which would be hellishly uncomfortable (not to mention the wrinkles; James loved that coat). Robbie tugged it off his arms and went to hang it up in the hall, along with his own. Walking back, he found James sitting on the sofa, head lolling against the backrest, eyes persistently closing no matter how hard he tried to keep them open. Robbie would have found the sight endearing if he weren't quite so worried.

"D'you need anything to eat before bed?" Considering they'd had curry at the station around 9-ish, he doubted it, but it was never wrong to ask. James' reply was a very much mumbled, "Nah'm good, thanks," so that was that. Robbie put the kettle on for a brew, then went over to the sofa, sat down on the armrest closest to James, and nudged his shoulder.

"Go on, then, off to bed with you."

James made a somewhat indistinct noise.  _Telling me off?_  Robbie speculated, and waited.

"You're nagging again," James elaborated.

Robbie grinned. "Says the man who was on to me about herbal tea and orthopedic mattresses for  _weeks_."

Another noise, this time it started deep in James' throat but then took a wrong turn and ended up emitting from his nose as an involuntary snort. _Begging to differ?_  Robbie guessed.

"That w's completely diff'ren'," James grumbled.  _Right again_ , Robbie thought to himself. All those mumbled truths and caresses every morning they woke up to each other, in bed, entangled, had taught him not everything there was to know about James Hathaway, but at least how to get by when his usually immaculate diction took a funny turn.

"C'mon, love," he prompted again and leaned over to press a kiss to James' pulse point, enjoying the loopy smile that immediately appeared on the younger man's face, unguarded as it was when they were together like this.

* * *

The next morning, Lewis woke with James much in the same position as when he'd fallen asleep on him about 9 hours earlier. It was a Saturday and they had no cases looming, so Robbie stretched as well as he could without disturbing James' slumber, glad that he could just have a lie-in and watch the man in his arms sleep or wake or whatever else he decided to do within the next hour or two. Quiet weekend mornings were a luxury, and Lewis made the most of this one by counting James' breaths as they ghosted across his neck, where James' face was practically buried. He'd reached about 260 when he felt the younger man's breathing patterns change, and quicken. Tilting his head a little to the right, Robbie made sure he'd see James' face as he woke, the subtle dance of his brow still fascinating him whenever he managed to catch it.

Opening his eyes, a little bleary from sleep, James greeted the new day by pulling back and smiling at Robbie before nuzzling his nose into the t-shirt covering Robbie's chest.

"Have you been watching me sleep again?" James drawled, mischief lurking yonder the blatantly obvious tiredness in his voice.

"It was you or the ceiling, and plaster might be just as pale as you, but not nearly as nice to wake up covered in," Robbie teased back. James huffed in amusement, but then groaned and pushed his nose more firmly into Robbie's shoulder in frustration. "What is it, love?" he asked, moving his hand from James' shoulder into the blond hair sticking up and out at odd angles.

"Just… why am I so tired?" James asked, stubbornness in his voice, in the set of his shoulders, even in the way his left hand curled into the fabric of Robbie's t-shirt.

"You've been running yourself into the ground, pet," Robbie replied easily, "hardly sleeping enough even when you could."  _I'm at least partially to blame for that_ , Robbie thought and felt a bit of heat rise to his cheeks. "And, of course, there's that bloody big brain of yours. The train inside your head never stops, James, that's bound to eat away at you."

"But shouldn't the train in my head be keeping me awake?"

"It is, though, isn't it? Most days, anyway, when your body's tired but you drag yourself out of bed and into work in spite of it, or when you stay up the entire night to sort through photos of a sodding masked ball just 'cause I said something." Robbie's voice still got a bit rough whenever he thought about that morning, but he pressed on regardless. "It keeps you awake until the rest of you can't cope any longer, and then it's time to stop and listen and just crawl into bed and not even try to get up for at least a day." He felt, more than heard, James huff, and he knew that this wasn't what James had wanted to hear.

"I sleep enough," he grumbled.

Robbie chuckled.

"Alright, I don't," came another grumble, and Robbie traced his thumb over the shell of James' ear to comfort him. "So what now?"

"Now, I'll go and make us a cuppa tea."

"Let me guess, and I'm to 'stop and listen and just crawl into bed and not even try to get up for at least a day'?"

"Cheeky sod. And, yes."

"On one condition."

"Yeah? What would that be?"

"When you're done with that tea, you come back to bed with me. You need the rest as much as I do."

"Is that a dig?"

"It's a friendly warning."

Now grumbling himself, Lewis pinched James' ear playfully and pulled him closer for a slow, lazy lie-in kiss.


	6. We Sure Are Cute for Two Ugly People

James had just managed to drag himself off to the bathroom, and was brushing his teeth, looking at his reflection in the mirror. He was topless, wearing only a pair of boxers he'd snagged from the cupboard on his way out the bedroom, and there was an angry bruise blooming just below his ribs, on his left side. The last arrest they'd made just the day before had gone a bit awry, to say the least, and getting smacked into a filing cabinet wasn't the biggest favour a suspect had ever done him, but Laura had looked him over and announced to Robbie hovering close by, 'He'll live—just go easy on him for a week, will you?' with a sunny smile before returning to the body SOCO had dug up in the guy's backyard.

Standing in the bathroom of Robbie's flat now, James traced the contusion with his left hand, smiling a little as he thought of how Robbie had winced when they'd undressed that evening, reaching out to touch the patch of skin shining in various shades of red and purple.

"Sorry 'bout that," he'd murmured. "Should've been quicker on me old feet with that one."

James had seen where this was going and covered Robbie's hand with his own, pressing it to the bruise gently. "It's not your fault, and it's not a problem."

Robbie had looked up at him doubtfully. "Isn't it? I heard you breathing funny in the car earlier, all folded up on yourself."

"Well, that's just 'cause your car is too small for me."

"James."

James sighed and stepped closer to Robbie, realising his shirt was still dangling from his right hand. He tossed it on the bed before bringing both of his hands up to cup his partner's face. "I'm fine. You're not too old, we were both a bit slow, and it happened. It's just a bruise, it'll show for a bit and, yes, it does hurt, but not too badly. Did you get the part where I said I was fine?"

Robbie scoffed and rubbed his left hand over James' chest, his right still covering his ribs. "I know, I know, I'm not trying to patronise ye—"

"Not trying to, no," James interrupted, but a slight smile in the corners of his mouth told Robbie that he was far from being rightfully angry with him.

"I'm a lucky bugger, aren't I?"

"How d'you figure that,  _sir_?" James queried, just a hint of facetiousness in his voice, and Robbie had to fight the urge to duck his head and evade his gaze when the lad's eyes reminded him how much he really didn't actually mind being called that when they  _weren't_ on shift.

"Well, I'm being an idiot and you don't mind."

"Snappily put," James replied, and Robbie couldn't help the thought that this was another pop-cultural reference he wasn't getting again, but he didn't ask. Instead, he wound both arms around James and pulled him close, dropped a kiss to his shoulder, and smiled when James' hands came to rest on his waist, thumbs drawing circular patterns on his skin.

They'd stood like that for several minutes before Robbie had eventually drawn away, mumbling something about the bathroom, pinching James' bum as he'd brushed past him. James had grinned then and continued to undress.

The door to be bathroom opened, shaking James from his reverie and revealing Robbie, yawning, clad in slightly tatty pyjama bottoms but nothing else, reaching past James for his own toothbrush. James stopped brushing for a moment and leaned down, pressing a kiss to Robbie's cheek, leaving a bit of toothpaste behind. Straightening up, his eyes met Robbie's exasperated glance in the mirror, and he smiled back at him. Robbie huffed a little but didn't bother wiping his cheek at all, instead starting to brush his own teeth.

James smiled at Lewis through the mirror, then bent down to spit and rinse his mouth. When he came back up, he found the other man observing him, or, rather, his reflection, with a frown. "What?" he asked, wiping his hands on a towel.

"Mmh," Lewis hummed around the toothbrush before spitting and rinsing himself, then waved a hand to brush it aside. "It's nothing."

"Come on, I know that frown," James prompted him gently.

Robbie sighed. "Oh, just… look at us."

James turned towards the reflection of them as they were standing shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the mirror. "I'm looking."

"Well, pay attention, then. You, young and fit, all smooth and pale, not an ounce of fat on you."

"And?"

"And then there's me. Old and wrinkly, going to paunch slowly, but very steadily."

"Robbie…"

"Hey, I'm not—what did you call it, 'flaunting my insecurities'? I'm just saying. I wonder what you see when you look at me, 'cause it's got to be very different from what I'm seeing."

"Actually, it isn't."

Robbie tilted his head in a quiet challenge.

"What I  _see_  is the same—the difference lies in how I  _perceive_  it," James elaborated with a small smile, and Robbie huffed.

"Smartarse," he accused, but there was no venom in it.

"Always," James shot back and bumped their shoulders together. "Look, I see the wrinkles, I see the bit of weight you've put on—and I do mean  _bit_ , you're not going to 'paunch,'" he pronounced the word as if it were doing him an injury. "I see all that, but I what I don't see is why it should bother you. It doesn't bother me, and I can tell you why: 'cause I  _like_  what I'm seeing. That starts with how much I love it when your eyes light up when you see me, 'cause there's crinkly lines around your eyes when you smile, and ends with how good it feels to have the length of your body pressed against my back when we fall asleep. And in between, there's how your skin is soft, or rough, in different places from mine, or how I can dig my hands into your thighs when you're on top of me."

Robbie blushed and the corners of his mouth turned up, but he didn't say anything, just tilted his head at his reflection.

"And besides, look at me," James continued, "lankiest kid on the force, I slouch even when there's no wall to slouch against, all bones and angles—"

"You're very… comfortable," Robbie interrupted him. "You fit right into my arms, even though you're so tall, and sometimes you snuggle and other times you're pushy. You're not lanky, either, you possess more grace than I ever did, slinking about like a cat, you are, and when you wrap yourself around me, all I can do is hold on."

"To my arse, I've noticed," James quipped, though his eyes were brighter than they had been two minutes ago. Robbie smiled at the James in the mirror and shrugged a little.

"It's the only part of you that's  _always_  firm," he teased, and James shot him a dubious look, turning sideways to glance at him properly this time.

"You do know you only keep getting away with these because you're cute, right?" James drawled.

"Why do I keep  _getting the feeling_  that you're using 'cute' in the same capacity as 'sir,' Sergeant?"

With a cheeky smile, James moved to leave the bathroom, pressing his hand to the small of Robbie's back and leaning down to drop a kiss on his ear.

Hours later, after they'd got dressed and gone into work and got a call about a new case, Lewis didn't have to look up from his notepad to see Hathaway's smile as he told him to, "Be careful," as he tracked down a lead on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "James and Robbie in the bathroom, in front of the mirror, telling each other what they find beautiful about each other."
> 
> Title nicked from The Moldy Peaches' 'Anyone Else But You.'


	7. I Look to You to See the Truth

It all started when Robbie found himself staring at James—again. Which, in itself, wasn't all that extraordinary. Ever since they'd started working together, he'd given the man all sorts of sidelong glances, exasperated looks, and glares; he'd be perjuring himself if he claimed that, with time, his Sergeant hadn't become his favourite to look at. Not just because he was "dishy," as Laura had informed him later, but because, until that one day, his seeking eyes had always found an answering pair, sometimes a questioning mirror, or reassurance, or a rebuttal. Often, they would hold his gaze, other times, they'd waver and shift for a moment, but they'd always return to Lewis. Occasionally, he'd catch James already looking at him when he raised his head, and it had taken him a while to realise that he only did because his eyes automatically sought Hathaway—wherever they were, even at the office, their desks no more than three feet apart, he made sure that James was around. When they had to be at gallery openings or other events to investigate "in a social setting," as Innocent liked to call it, and they weren't wandering about together, they could always blindly hitch their thumbs in the other's general direction if anyone asked; regularly making sure where they were drifting. And after a while, it hadn't even taken visual contact anymore, but that was later.

The day Robbie realised was when James was lying in a hospital bed, arms tucked in tightly at his side, having been unconscious for a little longer than he should have been, even with all those drugs in his system, in combination with alcohol nearly lethal in their own right. During that case, James had averted his eyes in earnest, had evaded and deflected and hidden the pain in them, had shut Lewis out, time and time again, until it had been too late and Robbie had snapped. He had driven James to Zoe, he knew, and this was his punishment: James' eyes had been closed to him for nearly two days, involuntarily, and the more often Robbie looked at that face, still and pale against the pillow, the more he wanted to beat his head against the wall. For two days, James couldn't have opened those bright eyes to him if he'd wanted to, but soon all that was left for Robbie was to dread the moment that he could. What if he'd snap them shut again as soon as he became aware of his surroundings, of the man standing at his bedside, impatiently waiting to see him, to hear his voice, to know he hadn't completely buggered it up?

It was then that Robbie finally understood what it meant, how important their silent exchanges had become to him, and why. He hardly knew anything _about_  James Hathaway, but he knew  _him_ , and before this wretched case, there had never been a moment he hadn't looked to James for nothing short of the truth; and not just for the facts of an enquiry, but for the truth about him, about them, about the world around them, and whether he was doing the right thing. From their first case on, James had set him right with a simple look and a few well-chosen words just as many times as Lewis had guided him along the right path in an investigation. And despite how this investigation had turned out, Robbie knew that he didn't want to part with James, that he still believed in what he'd seen in those eyes.

When Hathaway opened his eyes, about ten minutes after Robbie had affirmed this in his mind, and didn't look away from him once, the initial bout of disorientation notwithstanding, his gaze finally lingered the way Robbie knew it to, a plea for forgiveness hot on the heels of gratitude and—dare he say it?—joy. He had to leave the room quickly, just to get himself back under control, but in that moment he knew.

* * *

 _But if I thought I knew then, then how has it taken me nearly three years to get to this?_ , Robbie asked himself one evening, slumped into the sofa next to Hathaway, listing sideways into his younger colleague a little, take-away spread out on the coffee table,  _Doctor Who_  on the telly. Well, the answer to that was as simple as it got: he hadn't known the half of it, not really.

When he'd left that hospital ward, he'd thought he'd found a friend, a best mate the likes of which he'd never really had, neither on the force nor among his and Val's circle of acquaintances. He'd been too busy, and Morse… well, Morse had been Morse. When he'd left the hospital and gone to James' place to pick up a few of his clothes, one of the books he'd mentioned reading, and his iPod, he'd thought he'd finally opened up enough to have a _friend_  who wasn't a relic of his past in Oxford—no offense to Laura, but in a sense, she was. They were close because they had been then, she was there because she felt comfortable, because she already knew. James was… new. Letting him in had to be negotiated, trusting him had to make sense, somehow, and that was mindboggling enough for Robbie not to even consider anything beyond the realm of easy companionship.

It had taken him another horrible case, the quiet implosion of whatever he'd thought he had with Laura, and a few evenings at the pub and in his flat with James to figure out that he'd been a royal  _div_. Now, about a month later, he couldn't even remember what it had been that had made him look sideways at Hathaway, really  _look_ , only to find that what he was seeing suddenly made a distinctly different impression on him than he was used to. Most likely, James had laughed at something the Eleventh Doctor'd just done, properly laughed, which happened rarely enough for Robbie to want to make it his mission to tickle it out of him as often as he could; because that deep, full belly laugh was rich and loud and oblivious to their combined insecurities.

And then, when Robbie had turned towards him, it had smacked him in the face fair and square—oh, he'd been so blind. He didn't _just_  value Jim as a colleague, didn't  _just_  trust him to the ends of the Earth, didn't  _just_  regard him as his best friend. He damn well  _wanted_  him, head to toe, and that revelation had probably been so long in coming that Robbie hadn't even had time to question his sexuality before a tightening in his gut made coherent thought vaguely obsolete.

It was only then that he'd managed to see their relationship for what it was, for more than the platonic bond he'd thought it to be. He hadn't been stupid enough not to see that they were practically married—joint at the hip, anyway, but if Robbie had bothered to count all the times they'd had breakfast, lunch, and dinner together instead of on their own in many consecutive weeks, he'd possibly have booked an appointment at the registrar's office right away. Still, he'd been sure the physical side didn't factor into it, had never thought about it more than fleetingly, had never consciously considered the intimacy of touch and voice, the remarkable lack of personal space and (lately) privacy, too, because he hadn't allowed himself to, hadn't  _dared_. His entire relationship with this man had been one giant landslide—mostly smooth, with a few rocky passages and a bit of rough and tumble. He'd started liking, trusting, and fancying him nearly without noticing; and then there he'd been, at a loss for words and everything else.

His memories of Val had returned from painful to fond quite a while ago, had somehow taken up station alongside this growing affection for James; both his stubbornness and his self-conscious awareness of his age and rank warring with the younger man's worry for him and his own steadily encroaching recklessness.

Hadn't Hathaway already clarified that Robbie was more important than his job, that he could easily find something else to do, but not another partner, another reason to keep doing what he was, for the moment, doing very well indeed? And of all the things to tease Robbie about, had he ever made fun of his age? Apart from the odd laugh at old-fashioned expressions _—"rumpy-pumpy," among other things_ , his mind supplied helpfully—no… Robbie had regarded James from the side once more at that, replaying countless conversations and snippets of days spent together in his mind. Could he really be that lucky?

Robbie had remembered that one time he'd been cranky and James had advised Laura of, "Suffering and endurance, the bedrock of a happy marriage," when she'd asked him how he put up with it; Robbie had thought of all the thinly-veiled references and blatant innuendo all through the Point of Vanishing case. His reactions whenever someone mistook them for a couple had had Robbie grinning smugly more than once (after he'd got over his bewilderment the first time around, anyway), and James seemed to enjoy those misapprehensions, seemed to enjoy  _this_. Robbie had once apologised for monopolising his time, but James had turned and replied: "I'm going to say it just this once, sir: I'm here because I want to be. I spend most of my time with you because you let me, and I don't care what that says about our social lives. If I wanted one, I'd… I'm not being kind, or "settling" for something until—" he'd interrupted himself, then looked up at Robbie through his lashes. "Are you settling?"

Robbie had been taken aback, but answered straight away, "No. No, never."

"Good, then," was all that Hathaway had responded, an air of finality about him. Robbie had never tried to talk to him about spending time with people his own age again.

So then, that evening in James' flat, desire had almost devoured Robbie whole, and he'd spent the rest of the night trying to reign himself in and just not. let. on. Apparently, he had managed, because James had merely settled in next to him, still smiling, and then Robbie had left for his own flat at some point, even though the lad had invited him to stay, to take the bed while James took the sofa, no questions asked. But he'd known he'd need a night to sleep this over, and he couldn't have done that engulfed in the scent of the man in his pillow and in his sheets on Robbie's skin. No, no, that wouldn't do, and so he'd dragged himself home and into his own bed and stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours.

He knew that he shouldn't. He knew that they could get into some honest trouble, he knew that Innocent would have his head, or worse, and that he might hurt Laura all over again. God, he was old, and James was young and a bloody miracle, and how was he going to explain this to Lynn and Mark?

Trouble was that at the end of all that, there seemed to be exactly one thought, one sentiment: 'I don't care. I'll figure it out— _we'll_  figure it out as we go along. If James will have me.' He didn't want to have to be persuaded, he didn't want to have to doubt whether this was what he wanted.

For the first time, Robbie felt tired of grieving, tired of holding on to being the widower, tired of not being more than the sum of his parts, slightly the worse for wear as they were. He was in with a chance and perhaps it was sacrilege, but he knew that Val would have wanted him to grab it.

So he did.

Over the following month, Robbie did his best to make sure that there was no mistaking his intentions—as well as he could, anyway, with two and a half murder enquiries back to back and an incensed Innocent turning up in their office every five minutes when they're weren't out and about on Oxford's mean streets. In between, however, he ensured they'd always find time for lunch or dinner somewhere, staying at the restaurant, if available, rather than getting take-away, especially dinner. He could tell it confused James a bit, who was used to them snaffling something and then retreating to either of their flats, but when Robbie pointed out that they might as well sit down and eat food that was still properly warm at James' favourite Thai place, he didn't protest. In other news, Robbie pretty much continued as before, the only difference being that he now knew exactly what he was doing when he was flirting or insinuating or teasing, whereas before it had mostly just… happened. As if deciding to make up for not sitting as close as they would on the sofa, Robbie found his hand wandering across the table towards Hathaway's a few times, and did nothing to stop it; and if it earned them curious glances from the waitress or other patrons they'd never meet again (unless they decided to murder someone), he didn't care.

Tonight, though, they were at his flat, and his shoulder was pressed against James'; they'd solved another case and things were quiet for a change. After dragging themselves backwards through what felt like a hundred hedges, neither of them had even considered eating out, take-away had been ordered from the sofa, they had briefly squabbled over who'd get the door when the delivery boy'd rung the bell, and they'd settled on tea for drink because neither of them wanted to exchange the buzz of work well done for a different kind of buzz entirely.

"It's been a while," James said suddenly, turning down the volume a bit while the rest of the BBC News flickered across the screen.

"Beg pardon?" Robbie countered, trying for nonchalant, yet feeling very much like a DI caught in the headlights. This was how these conversations started with Hathaway; with an off-hand comment that put a capital 'T' on 'Talk to me, you idiot.'

"Since we last got take-away and stashed it away somewhere in our respective flats. All that eating out, I thought you'd finally managed to burn your place down and were too embarrassed to let me see—you picked me up in the mornings so many times lately, I hardly got a look in." James stopped, but the look on his face told Lewis that there was more, so he just gestured with his fork.

"Go on."

"And then I thought, why trade a quiet flat and telly for noisy public places all of a sudden? We get enough attention as it is, don't we, so what's the point? I didn't think you were afraid of me murdering you, in cold blood, with a pair of chopsticks, but then what? Had I been getting cheeky, or forward, to make you seek out places where we wouldn't be alone?"  
Robbie frowned at that, frowned at the hint of apprehension in Hathaway's voice, and opened his mouth to retort; but James held up a hand.

"Except we talked there the same way we would have here; and then it hit me: you were paying. Every time we were out, you paid. Usually, we split or take turns, but you would never let me near the bill. Today, too, even though it's take-away; and now I'm thinking, as we're sitting here, ignoring any notion of sharing a  _sofa_  in lieu of sharing, what, a cushion—what if the public dinners weren't exercises of social control, what if you were  _making a point_  to society, considering how many waiters have pegged us as a couple before and since. Sir—were you  _wooing_  me?"

Robbie stopped chewing mid-bite, the opening credits of  _Doctor Who_  whizzing past them, forgotten. He searched James' face for—well, anything, and when he found nothing but surprise and the hint of a grin lurking somewhere, he bravely nodded, his gaze dropping to his plate for a second before returning to James. He quickly swallowed and grumbled, "No need to make it sound like an accusation, you know." His tone was gruff, but the damn well near delighted laughter from his left let him know that James had heard the helpless affection lingering beneath. His next question had a serious undertone, though.

"Why?"

Now, it was Robbie's turn to look vaguely surprised. It was the obvious question, of course, but he hadn't quite expected Hathaway to cut right to the chase, without any spluttering or telling him off for being presumptuous again, or… he shook himself from his thoughts just then, rallying to answer earnestly and properly, not taking his eyes off James.

"Because it… felt like the right thing to do,  _does_  feel like the right thing to do. I—when I look at you, I know where I belong, wherever we happen to be. I start looking at you, and then I can't stop, and I don't  _want_  to. And if I've read this—us—all wrong, then I've just ruined everything, but I hope I'm right, I think I am. There are more than enough reasons for us not to do this, but I've had it with waiting. I'm not getting any younger, and there might not be much time left, but what there is I want to spend with you, if you'll have me. It took me so long to see it, and I don't want to have to be persuaded. You've already persuaded me to change the tune every once in a while, and I think now it's time for me to do a little persuading of my own."

James' eyes were bright and gentle, his expression somewhere between overwhelmed and relieved. After a minute of heavy silence, he broke eye contact and distracted himself with depositing both their plates on the coffee table. Then, he turned back to Robbie, a smile tugging at his lips, almost shyly.

"What makes you think I'd need persuading?" With another quirk of his brow, he tilted his head a little, and Robbie used the convenient opportunity the way he undoubtedly should—he closed the gap between them and caught James' lips with his own. A sigh escaped the younger man, ghosting across Robbie's cheek as they kissed. James pulled away minutely but immediately moved back in to nip at Lewis' lower lip from a slightly different angle, making his partner draw in a sharp breath that hitched in his throat. Counting that as a success, James smiled against Robbie's mouth, and between a few more nips and soothing the sting by brushing their lips together slowly he muttered, "Go… on. What else?"

"Mmh?" was all Robbie managed, lost in the feeling of James in general, James' mouth in particular, and James' hands in his hair (Robbie had lost track of his own, but eventually found them resting on James' shoulders); barely keeping up with kissing back.

"What else… do you… want from me?"

Robbie pulled away at that, eyes a little dazed, but a slight frown in place on his brow.

"James, that's not how—"

Hathaway's hands moved to cup his face at that, fixing him with a steady look from shadowed eyes. "That's exactly how this works, Robbie," he murmured before leaning in and kissing Robbie in earnest, tongue pushing past readily parted lips, plundering Robbie for what he had, and then some. Robbie's breath caught as he idly wondered that James Hathaway had to be the only man he knew who could practically  _offer himself up_  even while controlling a kiss that had them both panting in under half a minute. This was how it'd always been for them, wasn't it? They figured out what the other needed and gave it to them, no holds barred, knowing it wouldn't be long before their roles would be reversed; the act of giving just as important as receiving.

Robbie pulled James closer and answered, whenever he got a breath and a word in edgewise, "I want… everything… you're willing… to give."

"Ah," stuttered James, "you're still… doing it wrong… what… do… you…  _want_?"

Eventually, they broke apart for lack of actual oxygen in their lungs. Lewis' cheeks were flushed, he knew it, his lips glistening, and judging by how Hathaway's pupils were blown so wide that there was hardly any blue left to be seen, he was quite the sight. Robbie sorted through all the things in his mind he could say now, wanted to say, and he blushed even more—not from shame, but from excitement.

"I want you, from tip to stern. I want to do things with you I've never done before." They stared at each other for a moment, still breathing heavily. "I want to be the last thing you see and feel when you go to bed at night, and the first when you wake up. I want you to want all of that, too, I want to be what you need, I want you to want me. James… do you?"

James' eyes widened a little. "You Northumbrian lads don't do things by halves, do you?"

"Is that a dig?" Robbie shot back, only half-teasing.

"No," James rumbled, slowly leaning back in towards him. "It's an, 'I do.'"

* * *

A good while later, Robbie was wrapped up in a sort of grabby human octopus called James Hathaway, both of them haphazardly covered in blankets and a strangled duvet, their breathing miraculously back to normal. They'd cleaned themselves up and fallen back into the sheets and curled up against each other, talking in low, hushed voices until they were just too tired to think. Slowly dozing off, they were right on the edge of sleep, when both of their phones started ringing simultaneously. Denial fighting awareness for a few moments, both of them sat up, exchanged a long-suffering look, and then leaned out of bed to scramble for their phones buried somewhere in the piles of clothes they'd left behind. Coming back up, they answered the calls quietly.

"Lewis." / "Hathaway."

"…"

"Where?" / "Have you called in SOCO yet?"

"…"

"Right. On my way." / "Give me twenty minutes."

They hung up and James just let himself drop into Robbie's side, nuzzling into his neck, kissing that spot just below his ear he'd been delighted to discover earlier.

"Work. People," James murmured against his skin, and Robbie shivered.

"Dead people," he replied.

"Not those. Others. I don't like them. They're chatty, even at 3am."

"Poor sod," Robbie teased, but turned his head to bury his nose in soft blond hair. "Come on."

"Why?"

"You said twenty minutes, got to start somewhere."

"You think anyone will notice I'm still in yesterday's clothes?"

"Well, if anyone does, anyone will think you got lucky."

James let out a soft laugh. "And little will they know how lucky, indeed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "… or where Robbie makes the first step. Usually, it's James, and often drunk. I'd love a sober Robbie who finally figured out what he wants and gets it."
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing, I get nothing. Title nicked from Mazzy Star's Fade Into You. (What? Guilty pleasure song.)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so fluffy, we're all gonna die. St. John's doesn't exist (St. Gerard's is the college they investigate in Wild Justice (S05E02)), I have no idea if the name business is in any way legally possible (it had better be!). I make stuff up. It's what I do.

"What d'you wanna do t'day?" asked Robbie from where his head was comfortably resting on James' chest. Both still a little sleepy, they had stretched languidly when they'd woken up earlier and then quickly shifted closer; the warm spring morning sun peering through the curtains. James curled his right hand against Robbie's shoulder and stroked the skin with his knuckles, the Inspector squirming half-heartedly as the caress bordered on a tickle.

"Well, the prospect of a 'weekend off, no matter what happens; you're both falling asleep on your feet, so get out of my nick' personally decreed by Innocent shoving us out the door, is giving me quite a few ideas on what to do."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Most of them involve you, this bed, and very little else." James' voice had dropped another octave into Love Lines mode, and Robbie smiled against his skin. No-one would think James gluttonous to look at him, but the man was insatiable, and he now carried his need for Robbie with the same ease with which he made breakfast for two on a Sunday.

"I thought maybe you'd like to take a look at St. John's, the monastery a little way away they've been restoring for ages. I read the grounds are open for the public this week, before the monks move in properly. Really monks this time, not friars."

James raised his head to catch Robbie's eyes. "I would, yeah. I didn't think you would, though… Plus, it requires getting up. Ask me again in half an hour." With that, he thumped his head back into the pillow, his hand winding itself into Lewis' hair; who grinned and decided he'd do him the favour. They were in no hurry.

* * *

"Should we take some sort of lunch with us?" James called from the kitchen, tilting his head at the open fridge. "We're probably going to be a while… or we can get fish and chips on the way back."

Robbie stepped behind him and leaned against his back while rolling the sleeves of his jumper up, smiling when James automatically pressed back into him. "Nah, let's pack a bag, sit down somewhere in the gardens, that's more comfortable." James nodded and picked his way through the vegetable drawer to find a few peppers for slicing while Robbie made sandwiches.

* * *

As they were wandering through the halls and gardens, James pointed out details on the architecture and the monastery's history to Robbie, who would have freely admitted to listening more for the quiet enthusiasm and contentment in James' voice rather than the finer points of mid-16th century clerical masonry, but the buildings were truly beautiful and the grounds brought into great shape by the students from the local agricultural college. They ate a spot of lunch and had a thermos cup of coffee from James' satchel, perched on a bench overlooking the botanical garden, casually arguing whether Robbie should do the Chief Super the honour and accompany her to some semi-official dinner with His Majesty the Commissioner in the following week. The elusive Mr Innocent showed neither hide nor tail again, and Robbie had got somewhat used to being called upon, but James wanted to orchestrate a cunning plan to make their boss rope DI Peterson—dubbed 'Action Man' by Robbie less than affectionately—into these things in the future. Whom exactly he sought to punish with this, Lewis did not have any ambition to find out, but he admitted he liked the idea. Except, for this one, he had already conceded defeat and agreed to come along, so there was no getting out of it now.

"You're supposed to be going out to dinner with  _me_ ," James admonished him gently, but with a teasing tone to his voice that pre-empted any notion of an oncoming sulk Robbie might fear for in his partner of seven years—and secret boyfriend of three. He was never pleased when Innocent whisked his Lewis away from him on a night off, but he refused to be childish despite the rather impressive pout he was capable of; and though Lewis generally agreed, he found it actually lessened his own misgivings about those blasted soirées. They gave him something to come home to.

James smiled into the cup of coffee in one hand and lit a cigarette with the other. He gauged the wind to make sure the smoke wouldn't hit Robbie square in the face before taking a deep drag and exhaling through his nose. Robbie rolled his eyes a little.

"Can't you hear the bees complaining?" The question had no real bite, though—he knew James wouldn't stop any time soon and, actually, he minded smoking James less than a James with withdrawal symptoms (though he'd never, ever tell him that).

James was now balancing his right hand holding the cigarette loosely on his knee and arched a brow leisurely. "I'm fluent in Latin, dear, not Waggle Dance," he drawled. Robbie gave the man beside him a side-long once-over then, mentally cataloguing all the ways James' face looked different from yesterday and from tomorrow; and he knew just what he wanted to say. Had known for a long time.

"Marry me, James?" Robbie's voice was soft, the utterance quiet and off-hand, as if in afterthought, although the minute crease between his eyebrows betrayed that this wouldn't, couldn't ever be an afterthought. James' eyes had widened in response, and he was now staring at Robbie, his mouth opened, breath drawn to speak, but no sound coming forth.

"Are… are you sure?" he finally managed, his deep voice sounding a little faint.

"I'm asking you, aren't I? You know I'm not a man of words, so I'll just say this: I want to be your husband. I'm sure of that. I know all the other reasons why you're asking, but they don't matter right now, not if you think we can work it out. Do… do you?"

"Yes." The reply came without hesitation, voice rich and firm again now, rushing out as if in spite of himself, leaving no room for doubt. Softer, James continued, "Be my husband."  
And that was all it took.  
Robbie couldn't help the grin that spread on his face, while James looked down for a moment and huffed a quiet laugh to himself. They sat in silence for a bit before he put down the cup and looked back up at Robbie. "You know, I think now would actually be a good moment to kiss one's fiancé."

* * *

The next day, James was just finishing his book—T. C. Boyle's  _The Human Fly_ —cuddled into Robbie's side on the sofa when something occurred to him. That in itself wasn't all that extraordinary, things had the habit of occurring to him quite frequently, and he welcomed them. (Except for that one time when he'd been in the middle of a meeting with Innocent about a murder in a sauna, and it had occurred to James what Robbie looked like in the shower, coming undone underneath his hands while the bathroom was filling up with steam. That didn't help.) This thing was as welcome as it was extraordinary, so it took James a moment to get the words lined up on his tongue, in the right order.

"I want to take your name."

Robbie lowered the newspaper he'd been reading and found his boyfr— _fiancé_ , he mentally corrected himself—looking up at him expectantly.

"It's funny you should say that," he replied, and registered James' light frown before continuing, "'cause I've been thinking the same about yours."

James sat up a little to make things easier on his neck, but remained pressed up against Robbie. "You want to take my name?" he asked, feeling a little stupid for reiterating like this, but it seemed his brain wouldn't believe what he'd just heard otherwise.

"Yeah… I've already given my name away once. This isn't about Val," he added, "but you're young, you should be the one to put your name to a family. Even a very small one."

James nearly sighed at the reference to the evening before, when they'd talked about almost everything, ranging from their work situation to the offspring situation. Robbie would retire before the wedding, while James would hand in his papers, leave the force, and apply for that fellowship at St. Gerard's after all. The world at large, former colleagues feeling cruelly wronged, especially, could go camping in Siberia, for all they cared (Innocent, undoubtedly, would in fact send them there if anyone dared to cause a stir). The only one at work who knew was Laura—even though Innocent probably had an inkling and just pretended not to. Whereas James had no family to speak of, Robbie had had a bit of a hard time telling Lynn and Mark about a month after they'd first got together; and while Lynn had actually berated her father for not seeing what had been in front of him earlier, things with Mark had been slow in getting back to normal. 'Normal,' in this case, being a little strained at best, anyway. Still, both of them would be invited to the wedding and James did hold out a little hope that Mark would come back for the occasion, for Robbie's sake.

Then, there'd been that other thing. When they'd first started their relationship, Robbie had promised only to ask once and never again, but did James really want someone so much older when he could be starting a family of his own, have kids? Robbie was too old for another bairn in the house, or even a teenage foster child (also, if he was entirely honest, he wanted James all to himself for as long as they had left together, was that so selfish?). James had simply explained that children had never been an option for him back then, and had repeated his reasoning when it had inevitably come up again the night before.  
'I more or less manage to feed and dress myself, Robbie. I'm not a father.'

Now, on the sofa, Robbie put his arm around James' shoulders. "I want people to know I'm yours."

"Well, so do I. Me, yours, I mean. But we can't exactly just swap, can we?"

Robbie thought for a moment. "Actually… if we both add each other's names to our own…"

"What, Lewis-Hathaway?"

"Sounds right to me. It's the name they've given both our desk numbers on the internal phone directory, or so I'm informed by Julie."

"Have they? How uncharacteristically insightful of them," James thought out loud, and Robbie chuckled. "Mr James Lewis-Hathaway… yes, I like the sound of that."

"What? No, that's not what I meant."

"But you just—"

"You just tack on 'Lewis,' keeping your own name first."

James narrowed his eyes at Robbie and tilted his head. "Why are you so… certain about this?"

 _That's one way of putting it_ , thought Robbie, very conscious of what a pain in the arse he was probably being. "Just something Morse said to me ages ago. Made me think, about… ownership."

James' head listed a little further to the side in confusion, though he seemed amused. "You and Morse honestly had some very weird conversations. Half of me wishes I could have been around to hear them, the other half is glad I'm only getting the edited highlights." He thought for a moment. "Ownership?"

Robbie only nodded, letting James work it out on his own. Finally, a light smile appeared in James' eyes. "But you do own me completely," he murmured, and Robbie knew that James knew that he knew that the lad was only half-teasing.

"It works both ways, that's the point… Mr Hathaway-Lewis" Robbie grumbled affectionately.

"How right you are, Mr Lewis-Hathaway," James countered easily and turned his head to brush his lips against Robbie's neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Robbie and James talk about who's taking whose name when they're married. They end up taking each other's names, because that's kinda perfect. They're always mentioned in the same breath, anyway. | Can they please sit on the grass, Robbie like on the edge, James smoking, not knowing what's about to happen and looking good with his coffee?"
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing, I get nothing. Not even home-made cookies. Title nicked from The Beatles' 'While My Guitar Gently Weeps.'


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time, no see...

Yawning, Lewis lay back against his pillow, kicking the bed sheet he’d have been using as a blanket if it hadn’t been the hottest day of the year so far to the foot of the bed, neither knowing nor caring whether someone got fatally clobbered over the head tonight. Another weekend off had finally rolled around and he wasn’t on call, for once, DI Grainger would have to pick up the spoils this time. Lewis left the lights on but felt himself drift off anyway, until he heard shuffling feet and soft breathing from the doorway. Cracking open one eye, he saw James lean against the frame, clad in nothing but boxers, a concession to the frankly disturbing July heat that had swept Oxford up and refused to let go.

“See something you like,” Robbie teased.

“I do,” James replied, a hint of wonder in his voice, wonder that this was what he came home to almost every night, marvel that he should be so lucky. Lewis had learnt not to take the wonder for disbelief or second thoughts, had learnt to enjoy it, and made it a point to tell James every once in a while that it was he, Robbie, who was lucky.

So he let James marvel for a bit before letting his eyes slide shut again, half-raising a hand, motioning for James to join him already. Half a minute later, he felt, first, the bed dip beside him and, then, James’ lips, dropping a kiss on his shoulder, warm even through the light t-shirt covering Robbie’s skin. James settled in, propping himself up with his pillow, letting his fingertips idly glide up and down Robbie’s forearm. They were both too worn out by the last case they’d closed just in time, and tired and knocked down by the heat to get up to anything now, instead taking comfort in the affection of such a simple touch.

“Boyle or Lodge?” James asked, glancing sideways at the pile of books on his nightstand. Robbie made an admittedly non-committal noise and James huffed a little laugh. “Philistine,” he teased, and Robbie turned his head to look up at him and grinned.

“It’s not my fault that that voice of yours makes anything sound good,” he countered, and although James struggled to keep a stern face, Robbie saw the corners of his eyes crinkle in delight.

“Boyle it is, then,” James decided and picked up his copy of _The Human Fly_ , a collection of short stories written by T. C. Boyle that he liked. Choosing one that was reasonably cheery and calm, he began to read aloud.

Next to him, Robbie shifted so he was lying on his side, resting a hand on James’ thigh lightly, stroking a circular pattern with his thumb that he knew wouldn’t distract the lad. He let the sound of James’ voice wash over him, revelling in the fact that this was the first time in days that he was reading to him in private, for fun, and not reciting information from case files and autopsy reports.

It had started off as a joke between them, even before they’d actually got together: after gleefully handing James another reading assignment during a particularly obscure enquiry into the murder of an equally obscure Oxford don, Robbie knew he had it coming. Long limbs partly dangling off Robbie’s sofa that evening ages ago, James declared them ready for bedtime reading, whipping out the latest addition to their office library. Not even bothering with protest, Robbie settled back into the cushions, his thigh nudging James’ foot that was resting between them.

An hour later, James had woken him, gently tapping his arm. A little groggy, Robbie’d blinked at him and tried to remember the last thing he’d been aware of before falling asleep—which was, mainly, James’ voice and little else.

“Good to know me talking to you puts you to sleep, sir,” James intoned quietly; and Robbie knew him, he was only half-joking underneath the mocking tone.

“Get on with you,” Robbie grumbled, “it’s not that.”

“It’s fine, I stopped reading after ten minutes, anyway.” At Robbie’s surprised expression, James grinned. “Yep, didn’t take you long to conk out.”

“Small mercies,” Robbie murmured, but then frowned. “Ten minutes?” He checked his watch. “You one of those weirdos who watch people sleep?”

When the look on James’ face turned distinctly deer in the headlights, Robbie took pity on him. They hadn’t ever really talked about whatever seemed to be going on between them, and questions like this weren’t really easy ones to answer when the result could potentially punch a hole in the space-time continuum.

“Go on, soft lad, let’s call it a night. No,” Robbie added when James moved to put on his shoes, “you’re not driving home. Take the sofa, will ye?”

 

That had been the first time James read to Robbie before bed, and it hadn’t long before he started bringing his own books over sometimes. To tease Robbie at first, to drive him nuts, but both soon realised they were enjoying that reading thing more than they would have thought possible. Then, at some point, Robbie got his act together and asked James out for dinner, properly, and ever since then, reading before bed actually took place _in bed_.


End file.
